A Little Something

I believe that I must have led one of the most ordinary lives that a person of twenty four years can.
I'm the kind of person who worked only as hard as I needed to get through education with the grades I wanted, the kind of person who sat quietly in the middle of the classroom and diligently took notes. I am not the kind of person to stand out in a crowd.
I grew up having wild dreams like most children and, like most children, my dreams were soon crushed by reality. I used to want to be a travelling artist, working on the streets of Paris and painting the portraits of royalty. Instead, I became a teacher.
After a brief three years in university I left with a second degree and was on my way into the system of employment.
After I got the position as a teacher of English my friends congratulated me with a range of undesirable responses.
“Oh, that's... nice.”
“I never thought you would end up as a teacher!”
“What about your art?”
I was not encouraged by my friends in the only line of work I could do, but my parents were overjoyed I had finally given up on that 'ridiculous' notion of making a living through my artistic skills.
Of course, I had not fully given up. I don't truly believe that anyone gives up on their dreams. Even if a child wishes to be an astronaut when they are young, they will always have a feeling that that was their calling. It is as if, when you reach the age of five or six, an innate instinct rears it's head inside you and points you in the direction of success. I'm certain that some people have followed this instinct are are, surely, the happiest people who ever lived. The majority, though, just settle for whatever they can and try to find the true happiness they see in those others where ever they can. They try to pursue their dreams in their minds, or as a hobby, watching documentaries or reading novels on adventures into space, pretending that they are there.
I am one of those people.
I wonder, if I hadn't continued with my dreams, would I have experienced what I did later?

One night I had a terrible dream.
I was standing with my back to a sheer drop that went on forever, facing a barren wasteland of yellowing grass and large patches of barren earth. How I knew there was a drop behind me, I did not know. As is the way with dreams, I seemed to be granted with the ability to understand things that would have alluded me in real life.
I noticed that the charcoal sky was cracked with lightning streaks, lighting up the ground I stood on. The dark, heavy clouds rolled and rumbled with thunder and the wind picked up, tearing at my clothes and hair. I knew that a storm was coming.
That was when a dark figure approached me, getting closer and closer with each white flash of lightning. I was unable to move, despite the growing dread in my chest, which caused my body to stiffen and goosebumps to run over my skin. I could only stand and watch, my back to that eternal drop, as the indistinct figure became a man dressed in a black suit. When he came within a yard of me, he paused for a while and studied the sky, as if waiting for a sign.
After what felt like hours, he turned his attention back to me. I saw that his face was too thin, too pale; cracked and torn. His pale blue eyes stood out from their sunken sockets as he watched me. I felt the terror growing, swelling inside of me as if there was something, some creature, within me trying to get out.
Suddenly, I knew that something was trying to get out of me and looked with horror my chest. There was a lump growing there, protruding from between my ribs. I tried to touch it to push it back in, pressing on the lump that felt horribly warm and hard. It pulsed under my fingers as I pushed, desperate to stop it. After a struggle, it suddenly went soft and sank back inside me. That was when pain consumed my face.
It felt like burning and prickling, as if the skin was being pulled by every pore outwards from me, as if an invisible force was pulled at it to tear it off. I tried to raise my hands to stop it, but the man placed his hands on mine and I found that I couldn't move.
The pain had become so extreme I could hardly breathe. My eyes rolled in their sockets. My blood was a fire that ran through my veins. The skin twisted and contorted, ripped and healed.
The man released me and I fell to the earth, clutching my face in my hands.
The earth began to move. I could feel it wriggling and crawling underneath me, some of it climbing on top of me. I managed to open my eyes a crack and saw, to my horror, that the earth was made from hundreds of millions of bugs, all writhing under my body. The man in the suit stood there, motionless, as they ran over him. They ran into his mouth, parted in a grin. They ran up his nose and into this eyes.
I tried to scream, but the pain in my face became to much and suddenly, the bugs gave one final heave underneath me and I was sent rolling off the edge of the drop, to certain death.

I awoke to the sound of rain.
I lay in bed, the covers pulled up to my chin like a small child, as I listened to it pummel the roof top above me. I groaned and rolled over. I would have to walk all the way to the school in the downpour, and after a nightmare like that.
It was a mere creation of my imagination, probably from stress. Yet, the images still haunted me with shocking intensity.
It dawned on me, as I lifted my head from the pillow, that it was a Saturday and I didn't have to go to work today. A smile tickled my lips ever so slightly. I could spend the day doing what I liked.
What I liked was art.
The dream was all but forgotten as I willingly left the warmth of my bed to proceeded to the cold bathroom in order to get showered and dressed. I let the hot water run over me to get my circulation going then dried off and began to brush my teeth.
As I rinsed my mouth, I noticed something in the mirror that made me become still, my heart stop.
I could not see my face.
I rubbed the mirror, getting rid of the steam that covered it, but it was no use. My face was not being reflected back at me. All that was there was a blank, flat piece of flesh that looked like someone had just erased what ever had been there before. A blank canvas of skin.
Nervously, I touched my face. I still felt my eyes, my nose that was slightly too long, and my harsh line of a mouth.
It was still there, just not in the mirror...
My reflection no longer appeared to be me, but a copy that had only been partially made. I felt repulsed suddenly and had to run to the toilet to vomit up the bile in my throat.
I noticed that something akin to a blood red pebble was now sitting in the bottom of the toilet. I felt a little better but not in the way I would expect to. I felt... lighter than before.
I sat on the floor, panting for breath, as I saw in my mind that terrible reflection. The reflection that was not mine.

After I left the bathroom I sat at the table for along time, my wet hair plastered against my pallid face.
I stared out the window at the rain pouring down, as if a shower had been turned on outside. I watched it slamming against the window, looking for even the tiniest gap so that it could enter the house. The rain seemed bitter towards people, I thought, as it was dropped into the ground. It seemed to be hitting the windows with an angry roar to voice it's anger towards us sitting in our nice warm houses just watching it. I wondered if this was an example of the cruelty of nature. After a few moments thought, I decided it probably wasn't. Rain had no feeling after all, unless you believed it did.
With that thought, I stood and made my way to the small room at the back of the flat.
I stored my paintings on the walls and in the narrow alcoves, covering nearly every available space. My sketches I kept in the tiny cupboard that was elevated exactly halfway up and halfway across the wall opposite the door, so that I could easily reach them.
I had painted a series of paintings a few years ago for a side project while I was in university. I had decided to focus on the four seasons, capturing the essences of each in a series of four paintings. It had taken over five months of working every night, sometimes going without sleep for a couple of days at a time, to complete them all while I still had the inspiration to do so. They now hung in the four rooms of the flat: my room, the combined living and dining room, my flat-mate's room and the bathroom. I kept the room filled with my paintings as something apart from the rest of the house and so I did not hang one there, it was too full of the others anyway.
I stood there for several moments, just looking at the contrasting colours of the completely different paintings, some of bright flowers, others of the night sky, some portraits of my friends.
I saw my newest canvas propped up against the wall, only a little spot of blue paint in one corner and suddenly I felt the urge to start painting. I did not know if it was to do with my dream or the shock this morning of seeing my reflection with no face, but I felt a desire so strong that, before I was aware of it, I had picked up a paintbrush and a pallet.
I began to paint with a strange energy I did not usually have after a week's work, or even after a long holiday. I was filled up with energy, as if I had purged my system from the rock in my stomach that had been pulling me down and making me tired.
I tried to focus on that rock as I painted, letting it's shape and colour fill my mind and letting my hand move of it's own accord. I found my mind switching between the rock and my dream, it's vivid image demanding my attention as I painted.
I don't know how long I spent, my eyes partially closed, my hand moving as if it were being guided, but I suddenly heard the doorbell ring which snapped me out of my trance.
The rain was still coming down heavily and the sky was just as dark as it had been that morning, so I was unsure of the exact time.
I blinked at the clock on the wall but found my eyes unable to focus properly. I looked at the canvas before me and stepped back, slightly bewildered by what I saw.
The painting was of something that I couldn't quite place. It wasn't exactly abstract, it just had no definite shape to it at all. There was nothing in there as far as I could see, just a bundle of dull shapes all painted different shades of red. I stared at it hard for several minutes, trying, almost desperately to find something, anything, in there. To no avail.
I shook my head, trying to clear my thoughts as the doorbell rang once more. I placed the pallet down next to the fallen brush and walked out of the small, white room.
My flat mate was waiting in the hallway. His arms were folded, his gaze directed at something above the door. I could tell that he wasn't pleased I had yet to answer the door.
“Hello.”
I greeted him briefly as I opened the door. He smiled, pretending to be sorry.
“I forgot my key again!”
“I noticed.”
He pushed past me and slipped his heavy boots off, hanging his jacket on the only coat hanger available. I usually hung all of my clothes, coats and all, in my room. He had accidentally picked my coat up a couple of times an returned it with holes and stains. After that, I merely removed my coat hanger from the hallway and placed it on the wall in my room without any questions from him.
He was humming a light tune as he walked to the kitchen. I noticed the ends of his trousers were wet and were leaving a trail of muddy water along the pale floor. I mentally thanked myself for having the foresight to buy a flat with wooden floors.
He began to whistle a tune which I thought I recognised but could not put a name to it. It brought back a warm feeling of nostalgia. I wondered why.
Shaking off the strange feeling, I gestured to the kitchen.
“I left a sandwich in the fridge for you last night.”
“Ah, thanks.”
He opened the door to the fridge, allowing the contrasting warm light to spill over the walls and floor. I looked outside and saw that the sky had become darker. I felt a small chill run through me and rubbed my arms.
Noticing this, my flat-mate smiled.
“Why don't you use the heating? It's pretty cold in here.”
I shook my head, smiling a little too.
“No, it's too expensive to pay for paint and the bills.”
He laughed, unwrapping the sandwich. I quickly placed a plate underneath it.
“You won't be able to paint if your fingers fall off because of frost bite!”
I sighed. I knew he was right, but I had always had a problem with budgeting and I found myself drawn, as if by a strong, unseen force, into art stores. I never seemed to have enough paint.
“I know, but I've just used up a whole tube of the crimson red. I need to go and buy another.”
I remembered the disappointment of a painting I had left in the back room and wondered why I had any compulsion to finish such a piece. I did though, I could feel a prickling sensation in the back of my mind, reminding me that it was still there, unfinished.
My flat-mate must have seen something in my expression, as he slowly placed the half eaten sandwich back onto the plate.
“Look, you don't need to go now, right? It's raining really heavily out there and it's getting pretty late. I don't think any shops will be open.”
“What time is it?”
I could not control the harshness of my voice. I could feel a growing fear inside my chest. I needed that paint today!
He looked a little surprised, then slowly (too slowly!) moved to check the watch on his wrist.
“Um...”
Hurry up! Hurry up!
“About six twenty-five.”
The words were like a sledgehammer, knocking the breath from me. I had five minutes until the shop shut! It was on the edge of the street, so I could make it in time.
I had to make it in time!
“Hey!”
I barely heard him call out to me as I fled the flat, practically leaping down the flights of stairs. I could not get rid of this feeling of uncontrollable panic. My breath came in ragged gasps, but heart was pounding. I had to get there in time! I had to finish the painting!
I didn't feel the rain hitting me but it made the ground slippery and, as I shot out of the front door and onto the pavement, I dodged a passerby and slipped, landing heaving on my knees and causing water to splash over me. I heard them ask me if I was okay, but then I was gone, shooting off into the cloudy darkness ahead.
I reached the door to the little art store. The lights were on, but when I tried the handle, it would not open. I shook with frustration. I couldn't have come this close to lose my chance now! I pulled and pulled and eventually the door clicked and I rushed forward, straight into the owner of the store.
He looked at me, drenched from head to toe, only wearing a thin jumper, and blinked.
I tried to speak, but my tongue was numb. I realised then just how cold I was. I realised just how stupid I had been.
I shook my head, tears finally leaving my eyes and mixing with the rain water on my cheeks.
“Sorry...”
I croaked the word, then turned and ran back into the darkness, this time towards my home.

I stood in the hallway, shaking as my flat-mate held me.
We had been like that ever since I had finally rung the doorbell. I was so cold and tired. I did not feel sad, but I found that I was being supported by his body and that I could not seem to move of my own accord.
My head slumped forward onto his shoulder, grateful for the warmth, almost forgetting that he was terribly worried about me. I had no idea why I hadn't returned sooner, but I had found myself held outside, as if there was something inside telling me not to go back.
I felt him guiding me forwards, his arm around my shoulders to aid me. I tried to stop my legs from wobbling so much, vaguely concerned that the last of my energy would give out before I reached the living room.
I finally collapsed onto the sofa, my head flopping to rest on the back and I felt myself sinking into the deep blue cushions as if they were a sea. My eyes wouldn't open anymore and I found myself lost in a blackness that slowly began to consume my consciousness as well as my vision.

I awoke to silence.
I kept my eyes closed for a long time after waking, just enjoying the feeling of warmth. I felt tired, but not like last night. I no longer felt empty and cold.
The light played on my eyelids, soothingly illuminating the blood vessels. I considered the fact that many people would find this soothing at it was a similar effect to being in the womb of a mother. I wondered why that in particular was soothing. Maybe people wished they had not been born into a world like this, but remained within the warmth and safety of their parents?
I thought about the painting a little, wondering if I could use some other colour to finish it, but I knew that was not the case. For some inexplicable reason, I knew it needed to be finished perfectly.
I wondered what would happen if I did create something imperfect, but the thought upset me so much that I found my eyes beginning to fill with tears.
I sat up and dried them on my sleeve, which I noticed was now dry. I looked around the flat with bleary vision, trying to find some sign of my flat-mate. He must have gone out while I was asleep as there was no sign whatsoever of his presence. When I stood, shakily, I also saw that the trails of watery mud had vanished from the floor.
Rubbing my eyes, I wandered to his bedroom door, knocking just to make sure he really wasn't around. There was no reply.
Suddenly feeling a cold sensation growing from the pit of my stomach, I turned the doorhandle and pushed the door open.
I blinked, the darkness was all consuming. I moved over to the heavy curtains that blocked out the light and, with a final look behind me to the blackness, wrenched them open.
I felt the strength go from my legs. I dropped to the floor, my already grazed knees burning, but I couldn't feel the pain.
My eyes were locked to the half-finished painting placed on the perfectly made bedcovers.
The shades of red and the different shapes seemed somehow ghastly in daylight. They did not blend and nor did they contrast each other, separate entities in their own right. I could see something in them that I had not been able to see before.
It was me.
I could see myself in that terrible, incomplete painting. I had wondered before at the lack of definite shape, but now I could see that it was showing what I was, what I truly was. The painting had captured my complete self in it's incomplete form. I could see the emptiness, the void, that existed inside myself.
I remained staring at it for a long, long time, until my eyes began to hurt and my mind was numb from focusing on it.
Then, I stood and made my way to the bathroom.
I brushed my teeth and got changed, trying to avoid looking in the mirror but feeling drawn to it somehow. Like the feeling people get when they watch horror films: they want to look even though they have an instinctual impulse not to.
I turned very slowly and, as if watching a scary film through my fingers, looked at my reflection.
I let out a quiet sob as I saw it was not only my face that was gone, but my hair and shape. I had become an indistinct blob of something vaguely skin coloured. I was not me.
I shook my head, turning viciously, suddenly terribly angry. I couldn't bare to face that horrible thing in the mirror. Why was my reflection like that? I knew I still had my face and hair – I could feel them – but there was no sign of them in the mirror.
I swallowed the panic inside me before it had a chance to grow any more.
Pulling a brush through my hair, I wondered when my flat-mate would be back. Sometimes he could be gone for several days at a time but this time felt different. Especially as he had left my painting on his bed. It was like a note, but I was unable to understand what he was trying to say.
Sighing, I quickly ate a bowl of cereal then, after fining my shoes and coat, left the flat and walked out onto the damp, cold street.
Puddles were grouped towards either side of the pavement and in the gutter. Although it was so cold, there was no sign of frost or ice. The heavy rain last night had given way to painfully bright sunlight and I found myself squinting against the reflected light on the water-soaked ground.
I had no real reason to leave the flat, but I felt, unusually, that I needed to go for a walk. Normally, I spent the whole weekend indoors, focusing on either my work or painting.
I noticed that the sky was a wonderful shade of blue today. A bird began it's song as I passed under the trees and I couldn't help a smile forming on my lips. I had forgotten what it was like to stroll aimlessly, as if I had not a care in the world.
It was at that point that I passed the art store.
The door was closed but the sign hanging told me that it was open for business. I felt a sinking sensation in my stomach and my smile vanished.
I had to go in to get the paint...
I could feel the painting I had left in the flat calling me. I needed to finish it.
I didn't even consider the possibility of being recognised by the elderly owner and, as I entered, I received no strange looks. It must have been so dark because of the rain that he hadn't been able to see my face.
I browsed edgily, wanting to just get the paint and go home, but I couldn't seem to find it. I sighed and walked to the desk. I realised, as I placed my hands on the counter, that I was shaking slightly and suddenly I felt terribly tired.
It seemed to take forever for the owner to notice me standing there. My voice was so weak that I couldn't call to him.
He smiled when he saw me and quickly hurried over.
“What can I do for you?”
His voice was very warm and sincere. I found that he reminded me of my friend's grandfather, whom I had met in primary school. His initial appearance had scared me as he was tall, with broad shoulders and a long, white beard, but his voice had been comforting and he had told my friend and I stories.
I wondered how my friend was doing, having not seen her since the end of secondary school.
I forced a shaky smile for the owner.
“Um... I can't....”
I coughed, he was beginning to look at me strangely.
“I can't seem to find... the crimson paint.”
His smile was warm again.
“Ah, I see! Well, I haven't restocked the shelves just yet but I can take a look in the back if you like?”
“S-sure.”
I gave up on the smile as he walked out of sight.
As I waited, hearing the sounds of him rummaging around, I looked around at some of the art decorations hanging in the windows and from the ceiling of the small shop.
They changed every so often, not seasonally like most shops, just whenever the owner felt like it.
Today the theme appeared to be birds.
Little origami cranes were decorating the desk while giant mobiles and life-sized models of all different birds, from robins to eagles, clustered against the ceiling as if they were scared of the ground.
I wondered if real birds were scared of landing on the ground. I thought they probably were, what with all the predators and other threats. Although, it was no better flying, really. There could be strong winds that crushed them into rocks or airborne predators that could get them and their chicks. I thought it sad that, in reality, no one and nothing could really win. They all just made do with what they could get out of life.
I guessed that, if you thought that way, huge conglomerates and megalomaniacs almost seemed to have the right idea. I found myself smiling at the twisted logic of the world and at the fact that I was sure so many other people had thought of the same thing, or at least something similar, to my thoughts just then.
The owner returned very suddenly, making me jump, and placed a small tube of the crimson paint on the desk in front of him. He smiled pleasantly.
“I found some. Thank you for asking about it, it's reminded me to restock the shelves. Not too many people come in here nowadays, so it's difficult to remember!”
He laughed. I pulled the change out of my coat's pocket and handed it to him.
Without warning, he began whistling a tune. I couldn't quite recognise it fully, but I was sure I had heard it before. It was almost bittersweet but with a heavy undertone. The deepness of the tune was what I recognised, not the entire tune itself. As he put the money in the till, I felt myself desperate enough to ask him.
“What is that tune you're whistling?”
He looked up, as if surprised I had asked.
“It's Beethoven's 'Moonlight Sonata'. You interested in him? That's unusual for someone as young as you.”
“I'm not that young.”
He laughed again, his eyes full of amusement.
“Well, when you get to my age, most people look young! It gets difficult to tell the difference between the old and the young when you're older than both. Funny thing, that. Getting older is a strange thing indeed.”
“Yes...”
I had remembered where I had last heard the tune as soon as the old man had spoken it's name.
A young man in my secondary school had been in my class, although he was older than most of the children. He was the kind of person who seemed to disappear even before he had taken his seat in the corner of the classroom. I had never heard him speak, nor had I noticed him until he had thrown himself from the school roof, into the playground during the lunch break. The only thing I really remembered about him was hearing him, once in the hallway while he thought he was alone, humming that very same tune.
I wondered why I had forgotten him, someone who had caused such a scene that it had been the only thing many people, students and teachers alike, had spoken of for weeks after the event.
It was a strange thing, as the old man had said, that as you grew older your perception of reality changed, your priorities changed. I had heard that you thought more of the past as you grew older. I wondered if that was true for everyone.
“Well, thanks for the paint.”
He nodded, smiling still.
“No problem. Feel free to drop by any time.”
“Bye...”
I left the shop and now, trudging through the desolate winter streets, my thoughts drifted back to the time of my youth.
I remembered a girl who had offered me her hand when I fell over on my way into my university lecture theatre. While the others laughed or looked away she had stood up and helped me. I had had no contact with her after that, other than a few polite smiles.
I remembered a taxi driver with whom my friend had had a long, complex debate concerning literature. I remembered laughing as they both became more and more worked up over their side of the argument.
I remembered when I first met my flat-mate after placing an add for a room to rent. He had surprised me with his initial politeness despite his untidy appearance. He also demonstrated an unusually strong interest in art for someone who had only experienced the basics in school and, honestly, had no talent for it. I had found him so intriguing I had offered him the room straight away.
As the memories drifted before my internal gaze, I noticed something in my young self that was recognisable. Although these memories were easy to access now, I realised I had not thought of any of these times for many, many years.
It hit me then with a force so strong it caused me to gasp out loud.
The piece of the painting that was missing, the cause of the emptiness, was suddenly clear. I had been able to see that something that should be was not there before but now I knew what it was.
I found my hands shaking as I clutched the paint to my chest as if it were a precious object. I found my knees weak as I took a step forward, then another, then began to run.
I felt my breath gushing in and out of my body. My eyes could see every detail of the road, the trees, the people's faces as I passed. I felt as if I were gliding along the ground rather than running, as if I had suddenly overcome the limits of my body.
My brain was working so fast, the multitude of ideas I could use to finish the painting pummelling my brain so hard, that I found it shocking.
I reached the door and flung it open, not bothering to close it behind me as I rushed into the small,white room.
I began to paint and, with the same determination as last time, the world around me disappeared.
All that was there were the memories now, the memories of my life before now mixing with that epiphany of a dream. They melded together to create something other than that red, blood stone, something... beautiful.
I twisted the brush, opened more tubes of paint, some of which I had not used for months, washed the brush and slapped the paint onto the canvas.
The paint began to start mixing and dripping gradually down the material so I went and collected my hair dryer from my bedroom and dried it off, then started painting again. I painted layer upon layer. I painted in blue, yellow, red and when they no longer worked well enough I mixed them to form purple, green and orange and began to add white and black to get different shapes of colour.
I painted for so long that the sun set then rose then set again. I only stopped painting when my hand began to cramp so badly that I could no longer hold the paintbrush. I used that time to quickly get some food and water but had no time to wash or change.
I painted almost solidly, without sleep, for four days.
As soon as my brush left the page, I knew it was complete. I managed only a moment of studying it before my exhaustion overcame me and I collapsed to the ground, falling straight into a deep sleep.

I felt my consciousness gradually returning and instantly I found my hand was in unbelievable pain. I opened my eyes, blinking a few times to get rid of my hazy vision and saw my fingers were still curled around the paintbrush and instantly released it.
I sat up, clutching my sore, claw-like hand to my chest and looked around the room, trying to get my bearings.
I saw the painting and gasped.
Blue and yellow complimented each other at the top of the canvas, graduating down to mix with red, pink, green, purple and finally the image of all the colours I could possibly make from any paint spilling over each other in a fountain of emotions I could feel filling me as I absorbed the fantastical painting.
It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.
“What...?”
I heard a familiar voice and spun around to see my flat-mate standing there, in the doorway. He had dropped the heavy-looking bag he was carrying and his eyes were fixated on the painting.
“Oh... Hello.”
I stood shakily and leaned on the wall for support, leaving my paintbrush lying on the ground. I could feel paint matting my hair and causing my skin to tighten on my face.
My face...
I shut my eyes, feeling terribly unwell suddenly. I touched my hand to my face and there it was. I could feel my eye lids, nose and lips but I knew that if I looked in the mirror they would not be there. I wondered how much more of me had disappeared from the reflection.
“Hey... are you okay?”
I opened my eyes to see my flat-mate watching me, concern in his eyes. I could see, however, that his gaze kept sliding back to the painting and there was something other than worry in his expression.
“Yes... yes, I'm fine, thank you.”
An unavoidable lie. He wouldn't believe me if I told him what had happened, what was happening. He'd assume I was delusional. I could almost hear him reprimanding me for working too hard and letting myself get to this point.
“That painting...”
I snapped out of my revere at the sound of his voice, full of wonder. I saw him moving over towards the canvas, reaching for it, but at the same time holding himself back from touching it as if it was too precious.
“It's nothing, really. I just....”
I couldn't bring myself to continue. My fatigue was too extreme.
“It's... I feel that I've seen it before...”
I smiled, an unexpected warmth entering my previously cold chest. He had no idea what it was. I felt touched, as a person feels when they see a small child in awe of the smallest thing: the leaves rustling in the wind, a frog leaping from a pond, a kite adrift in the sky.
I found teas springing to my eyes, the heat melting whatever had been stopping the tears before. I felt everything all at once – my grief at losing myself, my horror at that faceless reflection, my exhaustion from finishing the painting, my love for those people I could now remember, my joy at life!
I found my hands clasped to my mouth to stop the uncontrollable laughter which mixed with the terrible sobs of anguish. It was too much! My body felt as if it were purging everything that I had held inside it, everything that had become stale and rotten – all of it was leaving me now.
I could see the painting and my flat-mate in front of it still, but now he was looking at me.
I stood, shaking with laughter and tears, and walked towards the door. I was so tired, I needed to lie down. All I could think of was going to bed and sleeping.
I felt a strange sense of relief now that the painting was complete, as if a weight that had been in the back of my mind was lifted. I wondered if I had always felt that weight growing gradually as I moved further away from the dreams and simplicity, the purity, of my youth. It must have been sitting there, growing larger, feeding on all that I was losing during that time like some terrible monster.
I reached my bedroom at last and immediately dropped into the comforting, soft covers. I felt as if I were floating as I lay there, a feeling that gradually altered to a gentle spinning and finally nothing at all.

I opened my eyes to darkness.
I was lying on my back, my blanket covering me up to my neck, staring at the ceiling through the blackness. I could feel my body, but as I tried to lift my arm to rub my eyes, I foun that I was unable to move.
I didn't feel scared, not even when I noticed the tall figure standing in the corner of the room. The light from the street glinted off his eyes and I saw the pale blue colour, sunken in their sockets. I could hardly see him and yet I knew exactly what he looked like. He was the man from my dream, the man with the cracked, pale, thin face.
I stared at him, watching as he slowly moved from where he had been leaning against the wall and shuffled towards me, his feet scraping against the carpet.
When he reached me, he raised his right hand. I flinched slightly as his hand came to rest over my face. He wore no expression, as if he were doing something very ordinary, as he placed his other hand on he stomach and then pushed into it hard.
I wondered why I didn't feel any pain or fear as my body gave way beneath his fingers, the organs and bones collapsing under his great strength.
When my body was crushed beyond recognition, he reaching into his pocket and pulled something out. I recognised it instantly as the blood red pebble I had vomited out after the dream. That was when I suddenly experienced a peculiar sinking feeling of disappointment in my chest, as if something were about to be taken away from me.
He seemed to see this in my eyes as his expression suddenly change into one of terror, terror that I might try to stop him from his task of putting that blood stone inside me again. He pulled my eyelids shut with his fingers and I felt something cold suddenly rip into my stomach.
The coldness seemed to run through me in waves, each stronger than the last. It coated my organs, my veins, my cells, my atoms. I could feel the terrible freezing cold rushing through me, forcing my breath out of my lungs until I couldn't pull breath back anymore.
Finally, I was consumed by the darkness.

I opened my eyelids slowly, shivering a little as I lay there in my bed.
I noticed that the curtains were slightly open, light spilling between them and across the centre of the room. The light hurt my eyes a little, forcing me to blink several times before I sat up.
As I removed myself from the blankets, I placed a hand to my stomach, now fully formed again, and touched my face gingerly. I could still feel my features, but I knew I would have to look in the mirror to be certain that they were there.
I walked, unsteadily, from my room to the bathroom and locked the door behind me. I leaned on the edge of the sink, taking deep breaths, willing my face to be there.
I finally raised my head and opened my eyes.
I saw myself watching me.
I felt joy, so intense and strange that tears sprang to my eyes. It was only for only a moment before I saw something strange in the eyes of the reflection.
They appeared not to be looking at anything in particular, as if the focus was gone. I remembered by eyes from before being so much stronger, full of life and passion. That was no longer the case.
I pulled away, disgusted by the sight and walked into my painting room.
The beautiful painting was still there, but something was missing from that for me now. I didn't feel the same overwhelming happiness as before and, when I picked up a paintbrush, I found that I no longer had the desire to paint. In fact, the very idea of touching the brush to canvas was disturbing for me, so much so that I had to leave the room and shut the door behind me before I was sick.
I hoped then that I would want to paint once more, maybe in a few days, but the desire never returned and every painting or piece of art I saw from then on made me queasy.

I have never recovered from this repulsion from art and I do not believe I ever will. However, my flat mate encouraged me strongly to take my painting to a gallery to sell, even though I no longer felt it was anything special. Sell it did and for a considerable sum of money which I have put into savings. I don't feel that I should use it, it feels contaminated by the events that led to my getting it. So, I continue my life as before, my ordinary life teaching, going out with friends for a drink after work occasionally.
Life goes on, moving forward with an unstoppable, uncompromising force that carries everything. I have no doubt that my painting will not last and that I and everyone I know now will be forgotten. I do not mind as, although I can no longer appreciate art, I find the limits in life help me to appreciate living all the more.
That is all. That is my story.